Shanta could not stay in her class any longer. She had done clay-modelling, music, drill, a bit of
alphabets and numbers, and was now cutting coloured paper. She would have to cut till the bell
rang and the teacher said, ‘Now you may all go home,’ or ‘Put away the scissors and take up
your alphabets—’ Shanta was impatient to know the time. She asked her friend sitting next to
her, ‘Is it five now?’
‘Maybe,’ she replied.
‘Or is it six?’
‘I don’t think so,’ her friend replied, ‘because night comes at six.’
‘Do you think it is five?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, I must go. My father will be back at home now. He has asked me to be ready at five. He is
taking me to the cinema this evening. I must go home.’ She threw down her scissors and ran up
to the teacher. ‘Madam, I must go home.’
‘Why, Shanta Bai?’
‘Because it is five o’clock now.’
‘Who told you it was five?’
‘Kamala.’
‘It is not five now. It is—do you see the clock there? Tell me what the time is. I taught you to
read the clock the other day.’ Shanta stood gazing at the clock in the hall, counted the figures
laboriously and declared, ‘It is nine o’clock.’
The teacher called the other girls and said, ‘Who will tell me the time from that clock?’ Several
of them concurred with Shanta and said it was nine o’clock, till the teacher said, ‘You are seeing
only the long hand. See the short one, where is it?’
‘Two and a half.’
‘So what is the time?’
‘Two and a half.’
‘It is two forty-five, understand? Now you may all go to your seats—’ Shanta returned to the
teacher in about ten minutes and asked, ‘Is it five, madam, because I have to be ready at five.
Otherwise my father will be very angry with me. He asked me to return home early.’
‘At what time?’
‘Now.’ The teacher gave her permission to leave, and Shanta picked up her books and dashed
out of the class with a cry of joy. She ran home, threw her books on the floor and shouted,
‘Mother, Mother,’ and Mother came running from the next house, where she had gone to chat
with her friends.
Mother asked, ‘Why are you back so early?’
‘Has Father come home?’ Shanta asked. She would not take her coffee or tiffin but insisted on
being dressed first. She opened the trunk and insisted on wearing the thinnest frock and
knickers, while her mother wanted to dress her in a long skirt and thick coat for the evening.
Shanta picked out a gorgeous ribbon from a cardboard soap box in which she kept pencils,
ribbons and chalk bits. There was a heated argument between mother and daughter over the
dress, and finally mother had to give in. Shanta put on her favourite pink frock, braided her hair
and flaunted a green ribbon on her pigtail. She powdered her face and pressed a vermilion
mark on her forehead. She said, ‘Now Father will say what a nice girl I am because I’m ready.
Aren’t you also coming, Mother?’
‘Not today.’
Shanta stood at the little gate looking down the street.
Mother said, ‘Father will come only after five; don’t stand in the sun. It is only four o’clock.’
The sun was disappearing behind the house on the opposite row, and Shanta knew that
presently it would be dark. She ran in to her mother and asked, ‘Why hasn’t Father come home
yet, Mother?’
‘How can I know? He is perhaps held up in the office.’
Shanta made a wry face. ‘I don’t like these people in the office. They are bad people—’
She went back to the gate and stood looking out. Her mother shouted from inside, ‘Come in,
Shanta. It is getting dark, don’t stand there.’ But Shanta would not go in. She stood at the gate
and a wild idea came into her head. Why should she not go to the office and call out Father and
then go to the cinema? She wondered where his office might be. She had no notion. She had
seen her father take the turn at the end of the street every day. If one went there, perhaps one
went automatically to Father’s office. She threw a glance about to see if Mother was anywhere
and moved down the street.
It was twilight. Everyone going about looked gigantic, walls of houses appeared very high and
cycles and carriages looked as though they would bear down on her. She walked on the very
edge of the road. Soon the lamps were twinkling, and the passers-by looked like shadows. She
had taken two turns and did not know where she was. She sat down on the edge of the road
biting her nails. She wondered how she was to reach home. A servant employed in the next
house was passing along, and she picked herself up and stood before him.
‘Oh, what are you doing here all alone?’ he asked. She replied, ‘I don’t know. I came here. Will
you take me to our house?’ She followed him and was soon back in her house.
Venkat Rao, Shanta’s father, was about to start for his office that morning when a jutka passed
along the street distributing cinema handbills. Shanta dashed to the street and picked up a
handbill. She held it up and asked, ‘Father, will you take me to the cinema today?’ He felt
unhappy at the question. Here was the child growing up without having any of the amenities
and the simple pleasures of life. He had hardly taken her twice to the cinema. He had no time
for the child. While children of her age in other houses had all the dolls, dresses and outings
that they wanted, this child was growing up all alone and like a barbarian more or less. He felt
furious with his office. For forty rupees a month they seemed to have purchased him outright.
He reproached himself for neglecting his wife and child—even the wife could have her own
circle of friends and so on: she was after all a grown-up, but what about the child? What a drab,
colourless existence was hers! Every day they kept him at the office till seven or eight in the
evening, and when he came home the child was asleep. Even on Sundays they wanted him at
the office. Why did they think he had no personal life, a life of his own? They gave him hardly
any time to take the child to the park or the pictures. He was going to show them that they
weren’t to toy with him. Yes, he was prepared even to quarrel with his manager if necessary.
He said with resolve, ‘I will take you to the cinema this evening. Be ready at five.’
‘Really! Mother!’ Shanta shouted. Mother came out of the kitchen.
‘Father is taking me to a cinema in the evening.’
Shanta’s mother smiled cynically. ‘Don’t make false promises to the child—’ Venkat Rao glared
at her. ‘Don’t talk nonsense. You think you are the only person who keeps promises—’
He told Shanta, ‘Be ready at five, and I will come and take you positively. If you are not ready, I
will be very angry with you.’
He walked to his office full of resolve. He would do his normal work and get out at five. If they
started any old tricks of theirs, he was going to tell the boss, ‘Here is my resignation. My child’s
happiness is more important to me than these horrible papers of yours.’
All day the usual stream of papers flowed onto his table and off it. He scrutinized, signed and
drafted. He was corrected, admonished and insulted. He had a break of only five minutes in the
afternoon for his coffee.
When the office clock struck five and the other clerks were leaving, he went up to the manager
and said, ‘May I go, sir?’ The manager looked up from his paper. ‘You!’ It was unthinkable that
the cash and account section should be closing at five. ‘How can you go?’
‘I have some urgent private business, sir,’ he said, smothering the lines he had been rehearsing
since the morning: ‘Herewith my resignation.’ He visualized Shanta standing at the door,
dressed and palpitating with eagerness.
‘There shouldn’t be anything more urgent than the office work; go back to your seat. You know
how many hours I work?’ asked the manager. The manager came to the office three hours
before opening time and stayed nearly three hours after closing, even on Sundays. The clerks
commented among themselves, ‘His wife must be whipping him whenever he is seen at home;
that is why the old owl seems so fond of his office.’
‘Did you trace the source of that ten-eight difference?’ asked the manager.
‘I shall have to examine two hundred vouchers. I thought we might do it tomorrow.’
‘No, no, this won’t do. You must rectify it immediately.’
Venkat Rao mumbled, ‘Yes, sir,’ and slunk back to his seat. The clock showed 5:30. Now it
meant two hours of excruciating search among vouchers. All the rest of the office had gone.
Only he and another clerk in his section were working, and of course, the manager was there.
Venkat Rao was furious. His mind was made up. He wasn’t a slave who had sold himself for
forty rupees outright. He could make that money easily; and if he couldn’t, it would be more
honourable to die of starvation.
He took a sheet of paper and wrote: ‘Herewith my resignation. If you people think you have
bought me body and soul for forty rupees, you are mistaken. I think it would be far better for
me and my family to die of starvation than slave for this petty forty rupees on which you have
kept me for years and years. I suppose you have not the slightest notion of giving me an
increment. You give yourselves heavy slices frequently, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t think
of us occasionally. In any case it doesn’t interest me now, since this is my resignation. If I and
my family perish of starvation, may our ghosts come and haunt you all your life—’ He folded
the letter, put it in an envelope, sealed the flap and addressed it to the manager. He left his
seat and stood before the manager. The manager mechanically received the letter and put it on
his pad.
‘Venkat Rao,’ said the manager, ‘I’m sure you will be glad to hear this news. Our officer
discussed the question of increments today, and I’ve recommended you for an increment of
five rupees. Orders are not yet passed, so keep this to yourself for the present.’ Venkat Rao put
out his hand, snatched the envelope from the pad and hastily slipped it in his pocket.
‘What is that letter?’
‘I have applied for a little casual leave, sir, but I think . . .’ ‘You can’t get any leave for at least a
fortnight to come.’
‘Yes, sir. I realize that. That is why I am withdrawing my application, sir.’
‘Very well. Have you traced that mistake?’
‘I’m scrutinizing the vouchers, sir. I will find it out within an hour ...’
It was nine o’clock when he went home. Shanta was already asleep. Her mother said, ‘She
wouldn’t even change her frock, thinking that any moment you might be coming and taking her
out. She hardly ate any food; and wouldn’t lie down for fear of crumpling her dress . . .’
Venkat Rao’s heart bled when he saw his child sleeping in her pink frock, hair combed and face
powdered, dressed and ready to be taken out. ‘Why should I not take her to the night show?’
He shook her gently and called, ‘Shanta, Shanta.’ Shanta kicked her legs and cried, irritated at
being disturbed. Mother whispered, ‘Don’t wake her,’ and patted her back to sleep.
Venkat Rao watched the child for a moment. ‘I don’t know if it is going to be possible for me to
take her out at all—you see, they are giving me an increment—’ he wailed.
